hi im in the process of reworking this character into a leif godborn take everything with a grain of salt :3⊰⋅⋅⋅☾⋅─────⋅☾⊱𖤓⊰☽⋅─────⊰☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
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Some tunes for your travels.
‧₊˚♪𝄞࿐₊˚⊹
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾ Character Information ☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
"A free spirit isn't defined by place or path — only by the fire in their heart and the sky in their eyes."
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾⋅─────⋅☾⊱𖤓⊰☽⋅─────⊰☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
Some tunes for your travels.
‧₊˚♪𝄞࿐₊˚⊹
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾ Character Information ☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
"A free spirit isn't defined by place or path — only by the fire in their heart and the sky in their eyes."
Full Name: Phyrrah Zoraahl Azara Metigal Zerbia Bel-Manzana
𖤓 Known As: Pizazz
Heritage / Culture: Feka Age: 36
☾ Birthday: September 11, 279
𖤓 Star Sign: Virgo
Gender / Pronouns: Female | She/Her𖤓 Star Sign: Virgo
Religion: No organized religion, but she does give offerings to celestial bodies.
Occult: Leif Godborn,
Character Occupation: Traveling Storyteller, Ex Battle Healer
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⊰⋅⋅⋅☾⋅─────⋅☾⊱𖤓⊰☽⋅─────⊰☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾ Appearance Information ☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
"There's power in looking in the mirror and saying, 'I am enough exactly as I am.'"
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾⋅─────⋅☾⊱𖤓⊰☽⋅─────⊰☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾ Appearance Information ☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
"There's power in looking in the mirror and saying, 'I am enough exactly as I am.'"
Eye Color: Magenta
Skin Color: Tan
Hair: Naturally blonde, dyed bright purple
Height: 5'9
Body Type: Lithe and well toned
Ears & tail based on a fennec fox, both dyed the same purple as her hair.
On her left thigh, there is a detailed work of the rising moon. On her right thigh, it is the rising sun.
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⊰⋅⋅⋅☾ Skill Information ☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
"Be proud of what you've mastered; every skill you hold is a story of perseverance no one else can tell."
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾⋅─────⋅☾⊱𖤓⊰☽⋅─────⊰☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾ Skill Information ☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
"Be proud of what you've mastered; every skill you hold is a story of perseverance no one else can tell."
Hobbies and Talents:
☾ Medical Skills
𖤓 Guitar & Lute
☾ Pan Flute
𖤓 Singing
☾ Storytelling
𖤓 Recreational Drugs
Languages:𖤓 Guitar & Lute
☾ Pan Flute
𖤓 Singing
☾ Storytelling
𖤓 Recreational Drugs
☾ Common (Fluent)
𖤓 Ibeth (Conversational)
☾ Altalar (Fluent)
𖤓 Droque (Basics)
𖤓 Ibeth (Conversational)
☾ Altalar (Fluent)
𖤓 Droque (Basics)
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾⋅─────⋅☾⊱𖤓⊰☽⋅─────⊰☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾⋅─────⋅☾⊱𖤓⊰☽⋅─────⊰☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
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Overview | Personality | Motives |
| Pizazz is a free-spirited storyteller who travels the world in search of legends. With a heart as light as the wind, she collects tales and myths from every corner of the globe, sharing her vibrant stories with anyone who will listen. Always on the move, she believes the world is a never ending adventure full of magic waiting to be discovered. | Pizazz is a woman of contradictions. One moment she will be on a seemingly endless chatting session, talking for minutes and hours on end. The next she will be silent, going a whole conversation with nothing to add. She is often seen as airheaded, opting to say whatever she feels in the moment without giving it much thought. | Her only goal in life is to have as many new and exciting experiences as possible. She goes where the wind takes her, always searching for new legends and stories to mix and match with those that she already has stored away. She loves often and fully, taking every day in stride and doing what she can to turn every situation into a good one. |
⊰⋅⋅⋅☾ Backstory ☽⋅⋅⋅⊱
"In the echoes of the past, I hear the whispers of those who shaped me — their legacy is the foundation I stand upon."
Pizazz was born at the golden edge of twilight, where the last breath of day kisses the rise of night. Her life was always a dance between contrasts- sunlight and shadow, celebration and calm, chaos and stillness.
Her father, Adonis the Sunwalker, was a fox asha whose golden fur shimmered like dawn breaking over sand dunes. As an acrobat for the fabled Crimson Caravan Circus, he dazzled audiences across the lands with impossible leaps and radiant illusions. He performed beneath the wide-open skies, seemingly guided by the sun itself, always chasing the next horizon.
One year, during a Midsummer Festival in a sleepy border-town nestled, he met Maya. She was a teled barmaiden with a voice like velvet and the calm patience of the moon herself. Her tavern was a haven for tired travelers and wandering souls alike, and though she kept her feet on the ground, her gaze often wandered skyward.
They met and their love bloomed instantly like dusk and dawn meeting on the same horizon, brief, brilliant, and eternal in its rhythm. And from that meeting of celestial souls came Phyrrah.
She was a child of both light and dark, raised in the dim hum of tavern life and the bright dazzle of circus tents. By day, she practiced stitching up scrapes and brewing tonics beside her mother. By night, she danced on tightropes beneath stars and juggled crystal moons made from glass with her father.
But something in her ached for more. Not fame. Not gold. But movement. She yearned for the wide world- the songs sung in faraway inns, the stories carved into forgotten ruins, the strange illnesses that couldn't be cured by herbs alone.
So she joined the Regalian military, not for glory, but for motion. As a battle medic, she learned to wield a blend of field medicine and subtle magic, sunlight to cauterize wounds, moonlight to calm minds at the edge. Her hands brought life back when it was almost gone, and her quiet resolve lit a path in even the darkest camps.
She fought in rain and ruin, patched up soldiers who didn't think they'd see another dawn, and told gentle stories to lull dying friends into peace. Her magic wasn't for destruction. It was for balance. For keeping people walking, even when the road was broken.
When the war ended- if wars ever truly do- she didn't go home. Instead, she wandered. With her old companions from the battlefield- a [blank], and a [blank], she drifts from town to town.
Now,under the stage name Pizazz, she spends most evenings under the stars, her face lit by the glow of enchanted herbs and moonbrews, telling tall tales of forgotten kings and impossible beasts. She plays the part of healer, jester, and old soul in equal measure. Sometimes she takes up a job. Other times, she just helps because it feels right.
When someone asks why she wanders, why she doesn't settle, why she drinks starlight and tells stories half-true-
She just smiles, slow and bright.
"The world turns, the sky shifts, and I move with it."
Her father, Adonis the Sunwalker, was a fox asha whose golden fur shimmered like dawn breaking over sand dunes. As an acrobat for the fabled Crimson Caravan Circus, he dazzled audiences across the lands with impossible leaps and radiant illusions. He performed beneath the wide-open skies, seemingly guided by the sun itself, always chasing the next horizon.
One year, during a Midsummer Festival in a sleepy border-town nestled, he met Maya. She was a teled barmaiden with a voice like velvet and the calm patience of the moon herself. Her tavern was a haven for tired travelers and wandering souls alike, and though she kept her feet on the ground, her gaze often wandered skyward.
They met and their love bloomed instantly like dusk and dawn meeting on the same horizon, brief, brilliant, and eternal in its rhythm. And from that meeting of celestial souls came Phyrrah.
She was a child of both light and dark, raised in the dim hum of tavern life and the bright dazzle of circus tents. By day, she practiced stitching up scrapes and brewing tonics beside her mother. By night, she danced on tightropes beneath stars and juggled crystal moons made from glass with her father.
But something in her ached for more. Not fame. Not gold. But movement. She yearned for the wide world- the songs sung in faraway inns, the stories carved into forgotten ruins, the strange illnesses that couldn't be cured by herbs alone.
So she joined the Regalian military, not for glory, but for motion. As a battle medic, she learned to wield a blend of field medicine and subtle magic, sunlight to cauterize wounds, moonlight to calm minds at the edge. Her hands brought life back when it was almost gone, and her quiet resolve lit a path in even the darkest camps.
She fought in rain and ruin, patched up soldiers who didn't think they'd see another dawn, and told gentle stories to lull dying friends into peace. Her magic wasn't for destruction. It was for balance. For keeping people walking, even when the road was broken.
When the war ended- if wars ever truly do- she didn't go home. Instead, she wandered. With her old companions from the battlefield- a [blank], and a [blank], she drifts from town to town.
Now,under the stage name Pizazz, she spends most evenings under the stars, her face lit by the glow of enchanted herbs and moonbrews, telling tall tales of forgotten kings and impossible beasts. She plays the part of healer, jester, and old soul in equal measure. Sometimes she takes up a job. Other times, she just helps because it feels right.
When someone asks why she wanders, why she doesn't settle, why she drinks starlight and tells stories half-true-
She just smiles, slow and bright.
"The world turns, the sky shifts, and I move with it."
On a cracked desert road, beneath a sky bleeding dusk, Pizazz wandered into the scorched remains of a town nearly forgotten in time, half-buried in sand, half-held together by spit and stories. Pizazz had fire in her eyes, a cloak stitched with tales, and a voice that could charm thunder out of the sky.
V. Kali and Houston were already there, leaning against the old tavern counter, drinking, chatting and waiting for the sun to die. Kali was all precision and poise, with a far away gaze. Houston was a walking wall of muscle and menace, with a heart buried deep under bruises and bourbon. Both were bounty hunters with reputations as deadly as their draw.
Pizazz strolled into town humming a melody older than the desert. "Looking for stories," she said, "and maybe a drink."
Kali raised an eyebrow. Houston snorted. "This town don't have stories left. Just ghosts."
But Pizazz smiled, like she'd heard that before. "Ghosts make the best tales."
They shared a bottle that night. Pizazz spun a story of a cursed gunslinger who could never die, V countered with a tale of a woman who shot down an outlaw gang with her eyes closed, and Houston, after some coaxing, told of the time he lost a fight on purpose so a kid could believe in heroes.
Over weeks, they drifted together like tumbleweeds tangled in fate. Pizazz offered words to soothe their scars. V gave engaged listening, and Houston his contagious laugh.
They didn't fall in love all at once. It was slower, like a hush before the storm. Charged, electric, and full of promise. They started riding together, three silhouettes at sundown, chasing outlaws and legends alike. A trio bound not by blood or contract, but by the way their pieces fit together in the quiet moments between gunfire and guitar strings.
Some say they're still out there, Pizazz, V, and Houston, all carving their story into the bones of the world. A love letter written in dust, bullets, and ballads.
V. Kali and Houston were already there, leaning against the old tavern counter, drinking, chatting and waiting for the sun to die. Kali was all precision and poise, with a far away gaze. Houston was a walking wall of muscle and menace, with a heart buried deep under bruises and bourbon. Both were bounty hunters with reputations as deadly as their draw.
Pizazz strolled into town humming a melody older than the desert. "Looking for stories," she said, "and maybe a drink."
Kali raised an eyebrow. Houston snorted. "This town don't have stories left. Just ghosts."
But Pizazz smiled, like she'd heard that before. "Ghosts make the best tales."
They shared a bottle that night. Pizazz spun a story of a cursed gunslinger who could never die, V countered with a tale of a woman who shot down an outlaw gang with her eyes closed, and Houston, after some coaxing, told of the time he lost a fight on purpose so a kid could believe in heroes.
Over weeks, they drifted together like tumbleweeds tangled in fate. Pizazz offered words to soothe their scars. V gave engaged listening, and Houston his contagious laugh.
They didn't fall in love all at once. It was slower, like a hush before the storm. Charged, electric, and full of promise. They started riding together, three silhouettes at sundown, chasing outlaws and legends alike. A trio bound not by blood or contract, but by the way their pieces fit together in the quiet moments between gunfire and guitar strings.
Some say they're still out there, Pizazz, V, and Houston, all carving their story into the bones of the world. A love letter written in dust, bullets, and ballads.
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